Curious Encounters
by Revriley
Summary: A series of oneshots in which Holmes and Watson, during their various everyday activities, come across the Inspectors in bizarre and often humorous situations, which may or may not be related to work. Each may vary in length and humor, and suggestions are free to be made.
1. Lestrade

**Full Summary: **A series of oneshots in which Holmes and Watson, during their various everyday activities, come across the Inspectors in unusual situations. Each may vary in length and humor, and suggestions are free to be made.

**Disclaimer:** ...Nope. Material is still not owned by me, no matter how many petitions I petition.

**Note: So, yeah, this is something I've been wanting to do for a while—fun and easy. Doyle doesn't really give the Inspectors enough credit, and man, it's very entertaining writing about them in these _bizarre_ happenings and surprising (or not!) our favorite duo. Glimpses into what their lives are outside of Holmes and Watson, and the like. **

**The order is as follows: Lestrade, Gregson, Bradstreet, Hopkins and Jones. **

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Holmes and I stood outside the funeral home of one undertaker Mr. Gaddeus Throp, a man who had supposedly supplied our suspect with the three coffins used in the disappearances of our suspect's victims. The building itself was dubious—its bricks crumbling, sign weathered and panes cracked.

"Are you quite sure this is the correct address, Holmes?" I asked, hesitating as I raised my hand to knock upon the splintering door.

"Stop dawdling, Watson, and open the door!" Holmes commanded from behind me. I smiled slightly, _of course_ he would be, and knocked twice. When there came no reply I knocked again.

"No response, Holmes." I said, more to myself then my companion. After waiting a moment longer, I grasped the doorknob and pushed the door open—it wasn't locked.

Holmes and I entered, and immediately I surveyed the room, which was dusty and frankly looked dis-used. One one side of the small shop was a table with crumpled paper upon it, on the other was a counter, behind which a man dozed, clutching a bottle. Behind _him_, against the wall leaned quite a few coffins, all marked with a piece of black ribbon.

Holmes strode over to the man and lightly rapped the counter. "Are you one Gaddeus Throp?"

The man muttered something and shifted in his sleep. This time, Holmes shook the man's arm, repeating the question. The response was more or less the same as before. My friend's countenance darkened, and I instinctively tightened my grip on my cane.

"Mr. Gaddeus Throp, I presume!" Holmes loomed over the man, his voice thundering. Almost instantaneously I could hear in reply a muffled pounding sound from nearby, accompanied by unintelligible yelling.

Holmes looked up in bewilderment as the man below him stirred and sat up, blinking his eyes.

"It...it appears to be coming from one of those coffins, Holmes!" I gasped, gesturing to the man's wares leaning against the wall.

We approached the coffins swiftly, and quickly determined which coffin the noise was emanating from. Holmes deftly unlatched the locks, and made to open the coffin door.

Lestrade burst through, panting wildly. Dust and splinters coated his hair and clothes, and he sported a magnificent black eye. Realizing our presence, he stood and began to brush the grime off his body. Without looking at us, he asked as to the time. When I replied it was about four in the afternoon, he paused for a moment, thinking.

"And the day?"

"Thursday," I answered, mystified. Before I could ask as to what in the heavens was he doing in the coffin, Lestrade whirled around to face the man behind the counter, every muscle taut with fury.

"Mr. Gaddeus Throp!" He roared, causing the man to shrink in his seat. "I have been encased in that bloody coffin for almost two days now—the devil you haven't been hearing my ruckus in all that time—what in the hell do you've to say for that, ya glock?"

Throp's eyes widened, and he considered his bottle. "I thought th'all tha' poundin' was just in m'head-"

"Deserve a good slating, you." Lestrade's voice shook, and he teetered violently for a moment before regaining his balance. "Corked with your shandy-gaff on the job, didn't even bloody _notice_..." He trailed off, and lapsed into a silence that seemed to intimidate Throp even further. The undertaker fumbled for his bottle in his uneasiness, but his shaking hands merely caused the thing to fall off the counter instead. The shattering roused Lestrade, and he idly glanced towards me.

"Thursday, you said?" He blinked, and then swore, dashing out of the door and nearly colliding with its frame in his disorientation.

Holmes and looked at each other in astonishment while Throp began to blubber before us about 'not knowing anything about the man in his coffin', injecting many pleases and sirs in the process.

"Well, Watson," Holmes finally said. "I do believe this case has become infinitely more interesting then I thought it would be. Now, Mr. Gaddeus Throp! If you would be so kind as to detail your transactions on Sunday the twenty-third, we would be most grateful. Today, if you please!"

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**Since Doyle wrote Lestrade's dialogue with distinct usage of words (In one instance Lestrade uses the word shivered instead of smashed, and he describes something as 'sickish' in another), I felt Lestrade might revert to very confusing slang and grammar on occasions in which he was distinctly upset or angered. A shandy-gaff, by the way, was a mixture of ale and gin. Corked means drunk, slating means in essence beating, and glock means half-wit. **


	2. Gregson

It was a fog-drenched Saturday morning, the sort that caused the air to be crisp and one's senses to be fully alive and alert. It was not so cold as to be painful, and it was soon agreed between Holmes and I that it was a wonderful day for a stroll.

Upon reaching the third quarter of the eight hour I found myself tiring, and Holmes tactfully suggested a late breakfast. And so we made our way back to the Strand. As we approached Exeter Street, which was already bustling with people, Holmes lightly tapped my arm.

"Plainclothes," he muttered under his breath. "Gregson's, I should think."

He imperceptibly nodded towards a man no more than twenty meters in front of us, leaning on a streetlamp, and then quietly indicated a man hunched against a building front, and finally a third engaging in conversation with a cotsermonger. The first, I realized, was squinting up at the rooftops, his body tense with his hands shoved in his pockets. Our gait slowed as we approached the scene—Holmes maintained an appearance of nonchalance, but the light in his eyes betrayed his interest in what was happening.

There was shouting in the distance, and then suddenly the streetlamp officer was blowing a whistle, gesturing wildly at the rooftops-the other plainclothes were suddenly alive with energy, one going for the door of a shop, the other poised for instruction.

I peered at the top of the building, straining to see what was exciting them so. Though the building's height was not very high, the fog was making it damnably hard to see the goings on. I could just make two men engaged in conflict. They darted about, in and out of view, until suddenly they were on the edge of the rooftop; a shocked yell then pierced the hubbub and a man fell into the alley below him.

Before I could hurry over to the alleyway and check to see if the victim was alright, one of the plainclothes dashed over into the alley to do the same. A few moments later, he emerged supporting Inspector Gregson on one arm anxiously. I blinked in astonishment, and, I admit, amusement as I realized the man was covered in flour. It stood out in sharp contrast to his black suit, and coated his face. Gregson irritably shrugged the officer off and started shouting orders.

"What are you doing, just standing about? Get going! Don't let him escape!"

And he was off, running down the street with the officer (and more that Holmes had failed to acknowledge) hard on his heels.

"I—I say, Holmes," I stuttered as I regained my voice, turning to my companion in bewilderment.

Holmes began to laugh, leaning on the building to his right in his helplessness. When he was done, he took me by the arm, grinning.

"Watson, I do believe we must inform Lestrade of this as soon as it is convenient. Gregson will never hear the end of it—they'll be at each others' throats-"

And so he dissolved into laughter once more as we continued walking towards the Strand. Indeed, he was in such high spirits for the rest of the day that I confess I made a note of recognizing the combination of Gregson and any other kitchen ingredient as a real solution for my friend's unfortunate black moods.

Suffice it to say, dear reader, I soon found that indeed, the novelty of the incident hadn't yet lost its appeal to Holmes.

Eggplant, Gregson eventually found out, is quite messy when splattered at great distances...

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**Yes, I'm sorry this took a while to update. I was away for a whole month singing with a touring choir and band across Europe, and almost immediately upon my return spent a week rehearsing with another choir. **

**I am also aware that this is far from my best written work. However, the idea of Gregson covered in flour amuses me greatly, so you were burdened with the cruel insanity that is my mind. Apologies! **


End file.
